


I'd Rather Rise From Here

by pastelaliens



Category: Promare (2019)
Genre: Almost Kiss, Beginnings, Confessions, E rating is for chapter 5, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hand Kisses, M/M, Making Out, Now Resolved Romantic Tension, Porn with Feelings, Post-Canon, Rebuilding, Slow Burn, Unresolved Romantic Tension, is calling it slow BURN in bad taste
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-26
Updated: 2019-10-17
Packaged: 2020-10-28 13:04:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20779040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pastelaliens/pseuds/pastelaliens
Summary: rage ate me up / endless forlornness has made me numb / i'd rather rise from here / or should i hold onto my past?The world must be reconstructed from the ground up, and so must Lio, who's never before had foundations in the earth. Brick by brick, Galo helps him build a new life and takes his place within it.





	1. Chapter 1

The way he fits into his skin isn’t quite the way it was before; there’s flesh where once there was fire, a heavy heart instead of a burning flame, and he can feel each beat of it. All of his insistence that the Burnish were just as human as anyone echoes in the back of his mind and taunts him because now, underneath this new and crushing humanity, he knows better. He glances down at the palm of his hand and not for the last time tries to ignite it. Gone are the whispering voices demanding blaze after ruinous blaze and he doesn’t miss them— but there are some things he misses.

“Lio?”

A hand waves in front of his face and he blinks Galo into focus, his brows drawing together in brief irritation. The hand opposite is holding a door open for him and he walks briskly through, shaking out his wrist as he does, flexing his fingers, glancing behind him to see just how close Galo is at his back. Close— closer— Lio stops and turns around abruptly enough that Galo collides bodily with him before jumping back a pace. “You haven’t told me why you wanted to meet me here,” he says, his voice as tight as the arms crossed over his narrow chest. _Here_ is a stories-high apartment building, shining and new, its upper floors lost in the clouds. The two of them stand in the lobby where tenants mill around them like ants in a hill. 

Galo, by some miraculous feat, manages to look both unconvincingly hurt and smug all at once as he drapes a heavy arm around Lio’s shoulders, turning him toward the elevators. “Yeah, I did tell you! I just wanna hang out at my place. Is that a crime?” Lio’s path into the elevator is a stumbling one; he ineffectively digs in his heels in silent protest to the way he’s being steered. Galo, with little grace, jams his thumb against one of the buttons, says, “Going up!” in a full and, in Lio’s opinion, grating voice before they begin their quick ascent. 

Lio shrugs off Galo’s arm, rolls his shoulders when he’s free of the weight of it. Careless, the way he throws his limbs around, while Lio only knows how to be contained. He’s always needed to be— contained, controlled, careful. With so many people relying on him, how could he not?

But they aren’t relying on him anymore, not since he and Galo cleansed the earth of the Promare. All of the Burnish— former Burnish, he reminds himself— were given the chance at something new when the flames were taken from them: a first true life to be built alongside the rest of the world rebuilding their own. Lio wishes that peace and happiness for each and every one of them, with all his heart, but then what is this bitter taste in his mouth that constricts his throat and pulls taut something deep in his chest? 

He hasn’t taken anything offered him by those in power, despite all the time that’s passed. Time enough to construct a place like this, to give the people of the world some of what was lost in the cleanse. But why shouldn’t he take it? Surely he is deserving. Stubborn self-reliance, maybe. Or perhaps he doesn’t know what to do with a gift, having been never offered one before.

A sparse set of keys is fished out of one of Galo’s deep pockets and he first uses the wrong key, and then the right key but upside-down, which doesn’t surprise Lio; too delicate a work for someone so ham-fisted. The door does swing open eventually, after some coaxing, and Lio files in, glancing this way and that at the apartment revealed to him.

And it’s… not what he expected. Knowing Galo, he guessed he’d be walking into no less than a pigsty, various parts of his firefighter’s uniform hanging from lamps or doorknobs, perhaps even a nice relaxing mud pit right in the center of the floor. But instead he’s met with this: a room bare of furnishings except for a sole, lonely couch, its color a loud and garish orange bordering on fluorescent. That, at least, seems right. Brows disappearing behind the green of his hair, Lio turns to Galo and says, flatly, “You live like this?”

“Well…” Galo’s grin is suspiciously wide. “Actually, no. _You_ live like this.” 

A long, silent moment passes— silent except for, perhaps, the sound of Galo’s grin stretching even further across the width of his face. 

Then, quietly, “What are you talking about?” 

Galo throws himself onto the couch, his bottom half disappearing against the matching upholstery. He sinks into the cushions with a contented sigh, making himself quite comfortable even as Lio still stands nearby, his spine as steeled as his gaze, defenses up. “What, you thought we wouldn’t hear you didn’t take the place they gave you?” _They_. Not naming names. “You gotta live _somewhere_, so me and the other guys at Burning Rescue decided to get you your own place here! We had to pull a few strings, but…”

The look levelled on Lio’s face is expectant, like Galo’s waiting for worshipful praise or overwhelming gratitude. Should Lio drop to his knees in thanks? Should he cry? He remains stony, unmoved, and the longer he goes without throwing himself at Galo’s feet, the smaller that grin gets. 

Briskly, Lio says, “I didn’t ask for this. I don’t want it.”

The confusion on Galo’s face fits his features all too well. “What do you mean, you don’t want it?”

Lio’s sharp heel hitting the hardwood floor underneath him as he turns echoes through the empty apartment. “I’ll leave you to solve that riddle on your own,” he says over his shoulder as he makes his way to the exit. He reaches out, turns the doorknob, leans to pass over the threshold— but the knob slips from his fingers and the way out is slammed shut and the hinges rattle with the force of it. Heat at his back again: Galo looms behind him and Lio slowly lifts his gaze to see a thick arm beside his face and a palm flat against the wood of the door. Calmly, Lio turns around to meet Galo’s heated gaze.

“What the hell are you gonna do,” comes the growled question, “live in the wild?”

Despite the warmth rising in him, Lio’s response is cold. “Why not? I’ve done it before. I’ve had to.” 

Something behind Galo’s eyes wavers; Lio watches as it happens and wants so badly to dissect it. If it’s pity— if he finds out that it’s pity, he won’t give Galo a head start. “Yeah, but… now you _don’t_ have to. You’re just like everyone else— building from the ground up.”

Just like everyone else.

“Just like everyone else,” Lio echoes in a whisper. And then again, “Just like _everyone else_.” The reason for his resistance comes roaring to life inside of him; it reminds him at once of fire. “And what if I wasn’t? If I still had the Promare inside of me, would _they_ be so eager to help?” A hand, slighter than Galo’s but no less strong for it, shoves at Galo’s chest and forces him back. “Because you know who _they_ are, don’t you? The ones who still have the power are the same ones who _hated_ us or else stood idly by when others tried to _destroy_ us.” __

_ __ _

_ __ _

There’s a fine tremble in the line of his shoulders; anger curls his hands into fists. _Want_ slams into him like a blow; he misses the way the flames would burst from him, release the rage and the sadness held inside. Now where does he put it? Now where does it go when he’s all filled up? Suddenly, it’s too much for his body, his human body, his limited human body, and his eyes are wild, and his fingernails cut their way into his own palms, and— 

At first he thinks the warmth in his hands is the fire coming back to life— but no, Galo’s taken them carefully into his own, has eased his fingers from their painful claws, drags calloused thumbs over the skin that’s broken but not quite bleeding. “You gotta find a new way to vent, huh,” he mutters, and the perceptiveness of the statement shocks Lio back into himself more than the gentle touch does. Quickly, he withdraws his hands, lets them hang loosely at his sides so Galo won’t feel the need to hold them again.

Where’s the flare of Galo’s temper to match Lio’s own? He thinks he would have been heartened by a screaming match right here in this barren place, their voices bouncing off the empty walls and filling their ears and disturbing the neighbors. Instead he gets kindness and his anger lowers to a simmer. Though _that_ is a blaze that won’t be extinguished; he’ll carry that anger forever.

“Lio,” Galo calls again. And again, it draws Lio’s gaze. “I don’t know if it’ll help, but… what if you think of this place as a present from people who care about you? It isn’t from _them_... It’s from _us_.” He pauses, and in the pause a breath, as if he’s readying himself for what comes next. “From me.” A blush catches like wildfire and sweeps over Galo’s face; he turns abruptly away but not fully, a poor attempt at hiding. “Or don’t. Whatever. That’s up to you. But if you go live in a cave somewhere you gotta at least tell us which cave.”

For a long moment, Lio regards Galo with the slightest tilt of his head, the slightest wrinkle between his brows. Every few seconds, Galo meets and then avoids that gaze, rapidly enough that Lio thinks it should make him dizzy. So he wants Lio to find comfort in this apartment— these four walls that could someday become a _home_, a thing he’s never once truly had— being a gift from friends rather than from a ruling people that had once sought the destruction of him and all those he holds dear. It’s a feat, a leap of logic— a sincere hope, because Galo, for all his failings, is also unfailingly honest. 

That comforts Lio more than anything.

“Give me time,” he says finally. He watches in real time the brightening of Galo’s expression— and again, something in him pulls taut, but it’s a different sort of ache now. 

“_Yeah!_ All right, I’ll give you time. We got all the time in the world!” He pumps his fist in victory and a small smile tugs at the corner of Lio’s mouth— an incredulous thing but a fond one, too. “Okay— don’t lose it but I told the others I’d get them once you were all settled in for a little housewarming party, so—” Galo makes his way to the door in a couple bounding strides, right past Lio, and opens the door. “—I’m gonna tell them that it’s only _kind of_ a party, because you need some time, but, still, everyone got you something, so we can’t really tell them it’s cancelled.”

He’s through the door and it’s almost closed behind him when Lio says, “Galo.” His head pops back in, obnoxious hair leading the way, and Lio continues: “This is from you?” An only halfway-committed point at the violently orange couch is met with a proud nod from Galo. 

Lio sighs. “It’s hideous.” 

There’s that grin again, brighter than any sunburst. A weaker man than Lio might have covered his eyes in the wake of it, but he only narrows his. The door clicks shut and Galo’s footsteps can be heard all the way down the length of the hallway. 

And when Lio is sure he’s alone, he walks light-footed to the sofa, reaches out, lets his fingertips brush where Galo’s head had rested.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Winter comes as it does each and every year, even if the rest of the world is changed. Lio has never truly known winter; its fingers like icicles had never once breached the barrier of his flame. The cold he remembers is sudden, a bullet, a pain that goes bone-deep. It’s not this creeping thing that seeps through the cracks of his windowpanes and fills the room so very slowly. He’s endured the cooler nights, dreaming of when the sun would be out and bright and full again, but tonight is different; tonight, nothing can warm him, a deep tremble rattling in his chest and making his teeth chatter in his skull, the sound of it like gunfire.
> 
> He needs to find heat and he thinks of Galo— Galo and his burning soul. There isn’t time enough to ponder _why_ that’s where his mind wanders, why _comfort_ and _Galo_ feel like one in the same to him; he needs to find refuge.

Winter comes as it does each and every year, even if the rest of the world is changed. Lio has never truly known winter; its fingers like icicles had never once breached the barrier of his flame. The cold he remembers is sudden, a bullet, a pain that goes bone-deep. It’s not this creeping thing that seeps through the cracks of his windowpanes and fills the room so very slowly. He’s endured the cooler nights, dreaming of when the sun would be out and bright and full again, but tonight is different; tonight, nothing can warm him, a deep tremble rattling in his chest and making his teeth chatter in his skull, the sound of it like gunfire.

He needs to find heat and he thinks of Galo— Galo and his burning soul. There isn’t time enough to ponder  _ why _ that’s where his mind wanders, why  _ comfort _ and  _ Galo _ feel like one in the same to him; he needs to find refuge. Galo isn’t far, only a floor down, so Lio leaves behind his own apartment (still woefully bare save the gifts given him by the others; he’s never learned how to make a house a home) and slips silently through the halls, the building quiet with sleep.

His knuckles rapping sharply at the door seem all the louder for the stillness of the evening. It’s a long moment before he hears movement on the other side, a shuffling, a loud yawn. Every endless second Galo takes to appear in the doorway is another shade of blue Lio’s lips turn. When the door swings open and Galo blinks blearily at him, still shaking away sleep, Lio can do nothing but stare and shake apart, his arms wrapped tightly around himself as if that will protect him from this freezing, unseen menace.

“What is it?” Galo asks, his voice faraway. Perhaps he left it behind in a dream. No answer comes and something in Galo’s features sharpens, becomes more aware. “...Hey, are you okay?” A hand extends, a fingertip presses into the flesh of Lio’s arm— and immediately he leans into the warmth of that one simple touch, coming to life underneath it. Lio parts his lips, his jaw aching from the clench of his teeth, and can only manage one word:  _ “C-Cold.” _ It seems to be enough.

He’s swept into an apartment the exact layout of his own but with the unmistakable signs of  _ living _ within, the unmistakable signs of Galo. It’s a feat of strength that saves him from falling into the body that hovers near his back; he can feel the heat coming off Galo in waves, the kind that comes from deep sleep. But before Lio can embarrass himself by asking for what he wants, Galo disappears into a nearby room and emerges with arms filled to the brim.

“Here,” he says, dumping his armful of cloth on the floor. From the pile he fishes out a sweater; it’s several sizes too big for Lio but Galo pulls over his head anyway. Underneath, his arms are still tightly crossed until Galo reaches in and eases them from their frozen position and into the sleeves that hang half a foot too long. “You know,” Galo continues, always eager to banish the quiet with his chatter, “I’m not really the creative type, but there’s something pretty poetic about you turning into a popsicle at the first sign of winter.”

The answering glare is only at half its normal power and, even if it were at full strength, it would likely be less effective coming from within the folds of an oversized sweater.

“It’s just killing you to ask me for help, huh.” A blanket is draped over his shoulders— the one Galo must have been sleeping with because it smells like him, still feels warm from his body. This finally draws a sigh from Lio and his eyes close, fingers scrabbling for the edges of the blanket to pull it closer, his body slowly animating as it thaws. He’s so sunk into the good feeling that he doesn’t protest when hands ease him backwards and onto the nearby couch. He sits heavily, the top of his green-haired head barely visible over the fluff of the downy comforter.

His eyes blink open when his name is called. He looks up, expecting as always for Galo to be high above him— but that’s not where he finds him. Instead, he’s kneeling on the floor before him, chin lifted, and the way the light catches on the planes of his face warms Lio in a different way. Is there something changed in Lio’s expression? Because Galo tilts his head just so, something curious in the movement— though the question he asks is, perhaps, not the one he was thinking. “Can I put these on you?” He holds up a pair of socks, thick and woollen, woven by the angels themselves as far as Lio’s concerned. He nods once, says, “Please.”

How gentle the fingers that take his ankle in hand. The house shoes he’d worn, useless against the cold, are thrown as thoughtlessly as one would expect from Galo into some corner of the room and the socks are slid carefully onto Lio’s feet, one by one. Never would Lio have imagined Galo handling anything so delicately and yet here he is, hands sliding up Lio’s calves to clad him to the knees in warmth. His head is bowed and his brows are drawn in concentration and Lio, without thinking, shakes an arm free of the blanket and reaches out to touch his fingers to the top of Galo’s head, blue hair slipping between them.

Galo’s eyes go a little wide and he lifts them to meet Lio’s gaze which, in return, opens up in mirrored shock. They’re frozen in time just like that for a long moment before Lio regains enough sense to snatch his hand back, hiding it within the blanket again. He looks anywhere else and his voice stumbles from his throat. “I just wanted to say— thank you.”

Softer than he’s used to comes Galo’s response. “Sure. I wasn’t gonna leave you freezing on my doorstep.”

There’s movement in front of him now and Galo could be throwing himself out the nearest window for all the attention Lio allows himself to pay it— but instead there’s a sudden weight next to him on the couch, a sinking in the cushion that his body, quite without his permission, slides toward. He can’t think of a dignified way to scramble away so he stays stock-still within his cocoon of blankets and borrowed clothes, close enough to Galo now to feel the heat of him. Does he always run this hot?

Galo shifts beside him, groans a little as he stretches his arms over his head. “Guess I’ve gotta get used to coming to your rescue.” His arms come down and the one nearest Lio rests on the back of the couch, mere inches from dropping across Lio’s shoulders; he notices, tension immediately in the line of them, making his spine go straight.

Lio tries his best to scoff but it doesn’t quite have the derision in it he’d intended. “Don’t get ahead of yourself. Helping me this once is hardly a trend.”

“Once?” Galo turns to face him more fully, leans closer. “I think you’re forgetting something.”

It takes him a long moment to understand what Galo means— and when the memory hits him, it’s a heavy blow. Lio swallows, once, and then sets his mouth in a grim line. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He lifts his chin, defiant, even petulant. And how  _ good  _ he is at concealing the sudden tumult within: heart pounding, thoughts racing, flashes of moments in time he can hardly see but can  _ feel _ — a careful hand tilting his head back, the soft pressure of a kiss so very delicate but still, even in all its gentleness, desperate beneath. It’s impossible to know if he’s imagined the way it happened, if he’s assigned a tenderness to it that never existed, and the not knowing has lost him sleep and sanity over the months since.

He’s pulled abruptly from his thoughts. “Seems like you need a little reminder,” Galo says, a grin in his voice. Lio turns, opens his mouth to tell him off some more, unconvincing though it would be, but his voice stops in his throat, caught, halted with only a blue-eyed stare, bright and mirthful and near enough that Lio can see the breadth of its color, the different shades that give it the depth of an ocean. But all the water contained in all the seas could do nothing to smother the fire that flares to life within him; it threatens to hollow him out and turn him to ash and no matter how careful a hand or how delicate a touch, he would crumble underneath any sweet attention.

Galo is grinning, teasing, his face expectant as if he’s sure Lio will pull away and he will have succeeded in his little joke— but Galo doesn’t realize how he’s trapped Lio, how he’s captured him with only a gaze and this too-close proximity. But no, it isn’t against his will that he remains, scant inches between them; it’s a battle of  _ want _ and  _ fear _ within him, and wherever the two clash, there’s a blaze of heat. Perhaps it was this that Lio came for, rather than sweaters and blankets and woollen socks, because it’s more intense a warmth than anything made by human hands could give.

As seconds disappear so too does Galo’s grin, his expression turning serious, the light in his eyes going darker. Tension, suddenly— the air between them charges, sparks, as if only the slightest friction would begin an inferno. In the midst of it all, Lio’s forgotten to breathe; lungs desperate, he takes in a shaking breath, lets it out, and now it all comes too fast, breaths matching the pace of his runaway heart. And then, as if drawn by the sound of a trembling sigh, Galo’s eyes drop to where Lio’s lips are parted.

It’s the brush of Galo’s nose against his when Galo leans forward  _ just so _ that grants the fear inside of Lio its victory. He’s on his feet, suddenly, struggling to get his legs to work in the trailing length of the blanket wrapped around him. Stumblingly, he heads toward the door, throws the blanket from himself halfway, feeling suddenly colder for it but desperate for the mobility the abandonment affords him. Lio hears the call of his name from his back but he doesn’t turn toward it, can’t when he’s so blinded by panic. It’s by feel alone that he finds the doorknob, turns it, and escapes through the exit, body collapsing against the door as it closes behind him.

His breath is ragged in the silent hallway. He presses a shaking hand against his chest, right above where his heart hammers, willing it to slow. It’s when his fingertips catch on the fibers of the sweater that he remembers— these clothes aren’t his. He closes his eyes, takes a deep and steeling breath and, before his nerve leaves him entirely, spins around and knocks loudly on the door. Running footsteps— the sound of a body colliding with the door as if the brakes didn’t quite work— the hinges protesting as the entryway swings open again.

There Galo is, looking wilder than he had before, hair in disarray as if he’d recently and rapidly carded his hands through it several times. “What—” he begins.

But Lio interrupts. “Your clothes—” Breathless, his voice, and he just knows his face is alight with a blush that he can’t stop.

It matches the color high in Galo’s cheeks. “Keep them. Stay warm.”

Though now Lio will wish the cold return, he says, “Okay.”

He turns and almost leaves but is stopped again. “Thank you,” are his quiet last words, and  _ thank you _ reminds him of the way he’d touched Galo’s hair, and he’s struck suddenly with the realization that he could do it again, if he wanted to, and he  _ does _ want to— but instead he flees, takes the path back to his own apartment and sits on the ugly orange couch that had been yet another gift from Galo, pulls his knees to his chest and disappears inside the oversized sweater, face hidden against his hands within. His fingertips wander to his own lips, press against them, and he wants so badly to be sure of the sweetness he’d imagined when Galo had stolen him back from death in the wreckage.

The next day, when the sun is high in the sky and Lio has nothing to fear from winter, he opens his front door to find a downy blanket at his feet, haphazardly folded and smelling of Galo.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Again comes Galo’s voice, barely above a murmur: “Can you tell me what you’re feeling?”
> 
> His whispered reply: “I’m afraid.”
> 
> “Of fire?”
> 
> Lio almost laughs; it crawls back down his throat. “Of you.”

Rebuilding the world is a slow process. Idle, peaceful days are strange and new for Lio, who before the cleanse never once saw the ground beneath his feet halt. Always racing, always running, always seeking bastions for the Burnish that looked to him for protection, to be still was to sacrifice the lives of those he’d sworn to protect. He doesn’t bow under the weight of that responsibility any longer, spine bent to breaking; the Burnish exist only in memory now and though he should feel lighter for it, though he should feel  _ freed _ , there is instead a restlessness inside of him that speaks in a small voice against the shell of his ear like the Promare once had, panicked and desperate.  _ Move, _ it says.

Never once has he broken a promise he’s made and no matter the needling whispers, quaint as they are in comparison to the need-fueled fire that had once filled him, he’d given his vow that he’d stay and see the world renewed, Galo at his side. Such easy words to say in the aftermath of it all, awash in adrenaline, giddy with victory; he hadn’t foreseen what staying would do to him. How hard he tries to thrive, despite his fear, but perhaps it’s that his roots just won’t take. Should he be expected suddenly to open up to the sun when all the rest of his life had been spent in moonlight?

The sun is in Galo’s smile and how easily it rises above the horizon, despite everything. Still he smiles, though it’s hardly been a few days since Lio had trembled apart against him before fleeing the warmth he’d offered. They’ve tried to act as though nothing is different but the others can tell that something has changed between them; they’re given a wide berth at the firehouse, as if anyone nearby might be caught in the fallout when they finally collide. Perhaps it’s Lio that gives them away— Galo returns to instructing him in the art of firefighting as though nothing had happened.

“Today we’re talking turnout gear,” he begins. They’re the only ones in the wide, open hall, a few of the vehicles nearby and the door to the common room shut tight. Their voices echo just so, reaching into every far corner; Galo’s voice is all around him. “D’you know why it’s called that?”

Lio lets his gaze drop to the pile of gear at his feet and then lets out a short breath through his nose. “It’s inside-out.”  _ Obviously, _ is what he doesn’t say, though it’s implied with his surliness.

Galo soldiers on. “Right! It’s inside out so all you gotta do is step into it and pull it right up and then you’re halfway there. Why don’t you try it?”

Tentatively, Lio steps out of his work boots and into the hulking, clunky ones nearby. He bends, takes the suspenders in hand, and hauls them up onto his shoulders, pulling the pants on. It weighs a ton; he shifts uncomfortably, his nose wrinkling. How transient his expression— it disappears into wide eyes and parted lips when Galo steps nearer, eyes intent— but not, this time, on Lio himself. A halting breath calms Lio’s nerves and he stands still as Galo examines his handiwork, reaching out to reposition one of the suspenders. “Looks good. Now the jacket.” He reaches behind Lio who, through sheer force of will alone, doesn’t flinch at the arm that extends past him. A heavy jacket to match the heavy pants drops onto his shoulders and he pushes his own arms through the sleeves, wiggling a little to get it to fall into place.

A short noise draws his attention to Galo, whose expression is thoughtful. “It’s still too big,” he mutters. “We need to get you a smaller size.” Lio realizes he hasn’t yet learned the proper way to dress himself in the gear, doesn’t know the ins and outs of the velcro and the buttons and all the working parts, but he doesn’t think it entirely necessary for Galo to do it  _ for _ him— and yet there are his hands, so much larger than his own but still so quick and deft and practiced in dressing him. It makes him think of a sweater pulled over his head, gentle fingers easing his frozen limbs into place.

“There.” Those hands have so much weight when they land on Lio’s shoulders and rest there. “That’s just the basics. If you wanna keep up with everyone else, you have to be able to get into your turnout gear in under a minute.” A fierce grin cuts the corner of Galo’s mouth. “Sometimes when we’re bored, we race. Remi will tell you he’s the fastest, but I got him beat.” Galo bends at the waist, brings himself nearer to Lio’s level. “It’d be nice to have some real competition.”

Lio rises to the bait. No matter what happens between them, no matter the tension, at least there will always be this rivalry to fall back on. “Is that a challenge?” He narrows his eyes. “Once I decide to be good at something, I become the best.”

“That right?” Galo straightens, puts his hands on his hips, turns the full wattage of his grin onto Lio whose sight is only just saved by his already narrowed eyes. “I’d like to see you try, rookie.”

This is something safe. This is something he knows. Being at-odds with Galo is as easy as breathing and Lio hangs onto it like a lifeline. It makes him forget the tightness in his chest and the way his skin tingles whenever Galo is near to touching it. Lio balls his hands into fists and takes a step forward— or tries to, because he hadn’t expected the anchoring weight of the boots he’d slipped his feet into, so instead of taking a step he stumbles, lurches forward and falls right against Galo’s waiting chest. Hands come up to catch him, grabbing him by the upper arms, but they don’t relinquish their grasp even when Lio’s right side up again; instead, Galo holds on as if the grip is the only thing keeping  _ him _ upright, and it very well may be with how weak he’s making himself from laughing.

A blush blazes across Lio’s face and he only manages to say, “Will you shut u—” before a loud, blaring alarm shocks the voice from his throat.

There isn’t a single second of hesitation; Galo is gone from in front of him before Lio can even blink. The door to the common room is thrown open and out pours the rest of Burning Rescue, some of them heading toward the gear and others toward the vehicles. Quick. Efficient. The best at what they do. Lio looks for Galo and catches sight of him just before he disappears into one of the trucks. “You stay here,” Galo yells over the sound of the engine roaring to life. “You aren’t ready for a real fire yet.” And then he’s gone and Lio is left alone with the echoes of squealing tires.

Carefully, he sheds the gear Galo had strapped him into and steps back into his own shoes, unnerved by the amplified sound of his own footsteps in the now empty firehouse. It had happened so fast— for all the fires Lio had ever started, he’d never once thought of what it was like for the ones who came to put them out. What a strange twist of fate, that he’s here now. What a strange twist of fate, that he’s worried for the safety of people he would have once called enemy.

The silence stretches on. How long they’re gone, Lio isn’t sure, but enough time passes that he wanders into the locker room and starts to gather his things to go home. But even when his bag is packed and his uniform is traded for street clothes, he doesn’t leave. Something is keeping him here, and it doesn’t take a lot of digging to unearth it: he wants to make sure they’re safe. He wants to make sure  _ Galo _ is safe.

When did he begin to fear what fire could do to a man?

The sound of screeching metal as the garage door slides open and allows the vehicles entry into the station. There are heavy footfalls, slamming doors, and then— the sound of raised voices. Lio takes a few quick strides to the door of the locker room and opens it to the latter half of one of Ignis’s lectures.

“—running in there when you knew the ceiling was two seconds from collapse. What did you think you were gonna do? Hold the thing up yourself? You could have  _ died _ . There wasn’t even anyone else in there— we swept the place and you should have trusted that we did our jobs. Now go clean up and go home before I kick your ass out myself.”

It must be Galo underneath all that soot; he turns and makes his way toward the locker room, muttering to himself, pushing past where Lio stands in the doorway. He’s shedding gear as he goes, stripping off his jacket, left with a cotton shirt and those too-big pants that are now black with ash.

Voice small, Lio says, “Galo?” When he looks up at the call of his name, Lio notices for the first time a gash above his brow, at his temple; it isn’t big and it isn’t life-threatening and it isn’t even close to the kind of damage Lio himself had done to the man when they were on opposite sides of a fight— and yet it terrifies him so completely that his throat closes and he feels he could choke on it.

“What’s with that look on your face?” Galo snaps, hackles no doubt still raised from the telling off he’d only just gotten— but his scowl melts away not a moment later. Lio isn’t sure of the expression his features have twisted into: some combination of that fear and some anger and something even more desperate than both. Whatever it is, it banishes the fight from Galo in a matter of seconds. “Lio, are you—”

“Shut up.”

The command leaves him in only a whisper but it’s obeyed. “You’re going to ask if I’m okay when you’re in that state?” A near-hysterical scoff grates from him and he turns away, walks to where the rags for the showers sit folded on shelves, plucks a few out of their neat creases. His next stop is the sink and he, without mercy, doesn’t wait for the water to warm before wetting one of the rags. The distance between them disappears; Galo is exactly where he’d been a minute before, rendered immobile by only a few words from Lio.

With more tenderness than perhaps anyone would think possible from him, he begins cleaning the wound at Galo’s temple, blood and ash coming away under his gentle attention. But as sweet as his actions are, his words are the exact opposite; they’re acrid, scathing, trembling underneath the venom. “You don’t think your job is exciting enough as it is? You have to go and make it even more dangerous for yourself? You have to get yourself hurt like this?” He asks questions he wants no answers to; Galo understands that and stays silent, for now.

The heart in Lio’s chest is hammering hard enough to hollow him out. His pulse flutters like a trapped bird at his throat and his hands— his hands shake as he works, a trembling that travels the length of his arms and somehow finds where his voice resides because that, too, wavers as he speaks. “I don’t know who you’re trying to impress,” he says, “or what you’re trying to prove, but maybe you should think just for a minute about the people who care about you and who are worried about you and who would suffer if you got hurt or  _ worse _ —”

He has to stop and remember to breathe but it’s hard when his thoughts have run away without him. There, the image of Galo bent and broken under some wreckage, blue eyes closed forever, the laugh Lio had heard only hours before never again filling a room. The horror of it. The absolute horror of it all. Lio has known loss; it’s dogged his steps for all his life and that’s why he’d always held everyone at arm’s length. Oh, the losses still hurt, but he didn’t carry them with him— couldn’t, if he wanted to save the ones still alive. But things have changed. He’s changed.

Galo has changed him.

His voice rushes ahead of him and he speaks without thinking even as his hands continue to clear away the soot. “This fire isn’t the same as the Promare. It’s wild. It doesn’t answer to anybody and it can’t be controlled by anybody. Shouldn’t you be more careful? It’s pure destruction— it takes lives mindlessly, without mercy, but you still run into it without thinking, without stopping to think, as if being as wild as it is will mean it’ll spare you but it  _ won’t _ —”

Strong and warm fingers wrap around his wrists, stop the movement of his hands in their chore. Lio’s voice cuts short and he meets the gaze that’s lifted to his own and in that quiet, so sudden and  _ thick _ , he can feel the raggedness of his breath, as if he’d just run hard and fast over an endless distance, his chest rising and falling too rapidly with it.

“Lio.” A warning. Galo lifts Lio’s hands, pulls them toward him, presses those palms against the curve of his cheeks. His skin is cool and damp and clean; Lio lets the rags he’d grasped too tightly in his fists drop and holds that face like so precious a thing. And it is; precious as blown glass and just as fragile; it could shatter in the wrong hands but it seems to fit just right here.

Again comes Galo’s voice, barely above a murmur: “Can you tell me what you’re feeling?”

His whispered reply: “I’m afraid.”

“Of fire?”

Lio almost laughs; it crawls back down his throat. “Of you.”

Galo’s larger hands have covered Lio’s now. In the cup of their palms Galo’s face moves, turns so he can press his mouth so very gently to Lio’s soft skin. The kisses are a matching set with the next one, the other hand given the same attention. The warmth of his breath there makes Lio feel weak at the knees as he never has before; he closes his eyes to the feeling but only for the briefest second because he feels that right now, in this moment, he won’t stay grounded unless he holds the gaze still intent on his own. Galo keeps him tethered to the earth.

“Of how you feel about me,” he whispers into Lio’s palm like a prayer, and Lio’s answer, just as holy, is, “Yes.” Those lips are bolder now; they brush fingertips and then Lio’s thumb catches on them, presses— he admires the way it gives beneath his touch. Teeth, then, dragging down over the pad of his thumb. Hunger in the gaze that follows; it longs for the flash of teeth, for the sharpness of them, for what might follow after to soothe the bite. This wanting is nothing new; Lio’s fought against it for as long as he’s known Galo.

He sees the same  _ wanting _ in the eyes that meet his own. When Galo speaks, Lio can map the words with his fingertips. “I don’t want to tell you how I feel,” he says. “I want to show you.” That mouth blazes a trail to Lio’s wrist where his pulse beats frantically, trying to break free of his body. “Can I?”

There’s resistance, still. Speaking of fear doesn’t banish it; still, it looms, it bares its fangs, it holds him in its grip. Galo makes him forget it, bit by bit, but it’s not enough, not yet, and he’s never been more sorry. So thin, his voice— it’s like nothing he’s ever revealed to anyone else he’s known. “Give me time,” he whispers. Even after all he’s been given, he asks for more.  _ Give me time _ .

When Galo stands, that face slips from Lio’s hands— but instead of retreat, as Lio had feared and expected, Galo steps close and this time it’s Lio’s face that’s taken into gentle palms. He’s held loosely in place— loose enough that he can pull away if he wants— and Galo leans slowly forward until Lio’s forehead is underneath his lips. There he places a sweet kiss made all the sweeter by his restraint, by his understanding. Those hands tilt his head back so that Lio can blink his eyes open, closed during the tender kiss, and meet Galo’s sunny grin.

“We got all the time in the world,” Galo says.

  
  



	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A smile pulls cautiously at Lio’s lips. “I wonder what sort of things you worry about.” He knows that Galo’s head isn’t quite so empty as some might guess.
> 
> “Hmm,” Galo says, thoughtful. “Not a whole lot. I just worry about whether or not the people important to me are happy.”
> 
> Their gazes meet and the question is there in Galo’s blue eyes, so filled to brimming with hope: is Lio happy? In this moment he understands, truly understands, what it is that fills Galo up: this caring for others, this hope for happiness, this earnest desire to give to the ones he loves everything he can. He makes Lio want to be giving, in a way that’s new. It’s not a thing of necessity, like in all the rest of Lio’s life, nothing that Galo is desperate and begging for, helpless to find on his own; it’s a gift that Lio can choose to give without the weight of so many people's fates on his shoulders.
> 
> And so he does, the best he can. “I want to be happy,” Lio answers quietly, “with you.”

The quiet isn’t so silent as Lio had once thought; there’s an underlying song even when the hush of evening comes. The click of a closing door, muffled footsteps on thick carpet, voices only a faraway murmur through the walls— somewhere, someone laughs as hard as they ever have and the noise of it only just reaches Lio’s ears so it sounds like a secret to him. These things come together in a melody that’s only ever been heard this once, unique to this very moment, and Lio finds comfort in it. It makes the whole vast world seem a little smaller.

Louder, now, staccato, a knock at the door. When he’s alone, Lio spends his evenings underneath a heavy blanket; he leaves the safety of it now and ventures into his apartment chilly with winter. Galo is on the other side of the door, of course, but it seems this time he visits with a different sort of excuse than usual; he’s bundled up in a heavy coat and his smile is half covered by a scarf coiled around his neck and he’s holding out his gloved hands filled with a second pair of the same vestments. 

Galo’s greeting is, “Are you busy? Put these on. I wanna show you something.”

Lio was always going to go with him, of course, but he allows himself the theater of considering it. “Galo,” he says, tilting his head to the side just so. “I hardly recognized you with all your clothes on. Is this a special occasion?” 

A thoughtful noise, and then, “Not yet. But it could be later, you never know.”

What can he say to that? His answer is in actions: he finds his boots and his coat and wears the scarf and gloves to match Galo’s. The apartment is left behind and the two step into the elevator— and to Lio’s surprise, instead of heading down toward the lobby, they begin to ascend to the highest floor, and when the elevator will take them no higher they find a set of stairs that lead up to the roof. 

The wind up here is strong and pulls at Lio’s hair and makes him raise his shoulders to his ears, limbs drawing close to protect him from the cold. Galo’s a few steps ahead of him and in the long line of his body there isn’t even the slightest shiver. Lio scowls behind his scarf at that; if he can find fault in nothing else, at least he can begrudge Galo this, his seeming immunity to harsh winter. Galo’s smiling a smaller smile, something almost private, and Lio wants to know what it’s for— who it’s for— but won’t risk chasing it away. Silently, he wonders. The way Galo stares off into the distance, into the nighttime horizon just beginning to come alive with lights, makes it seem as though he’s waiting for something.

“You’re not afraid of heights, are you?” Galo gives Lio a sidelong look, face bright with teasing. “I guess now that you’re a regular person like the rest of us, it’s scarier, right?” 

Light footfalls take Lio closer to the edge of the roof and to the drop that would take him to the ground all those stories underneath them with one misstep; he stares at the distance with indifference. “It doesn’t scare me,” he says, breath warm against the cloth of his scarf. “I’ve seen all the scariest things the world outside has to offer.” What is it about Galo that brings these words from his lips, these sort of confessions? He finds he can say things to Galo that he can’t to anyone else. “All that’s left is…”

Perhaps it’s only that Galo offers understanding; he finishes Lio’s sentence. “...what’s inside?”

They’d spoken of fear before, Lio standing before Galo with his face in his hands. The memory comes and so do teeth worrying at a bottom lip, the slightest pain to keep him from slipping into remembering. “You already know that. But there’s more—” A pause and Lio glances over his shoulder at Galo, who stands nearby with his arms lifted and his hands clasped at the back of his head. “Is this what you brought me here to listen to?”

Galo shrugs his shoulders. “Not exactly, but I’d like to know, if you wanna tell me.”

As if built into the very foundation of this edifice, Galo stands still and strong; wherever his feet land is exactly where he belongs, and Lio envies him that. That belonging had never been Lio’s. “I was born into conflict the moment flames woke up in me.” He speaks quietly; Galo leans closer to hear. “I don’t think I know how to live outside of war yet.” The wind rises, dances through the waves of hair that frame Lio’s face. “All this time, I was just a vessel— for the Promare, but for the others, too. They asked me to hold all their hope for freedom, and I did, and they loved me for it.” _They_. The Burnish. They _asked_, they _loved_, all in past tense, because they’re no more. “Now I’m not a vessel or a leader.” He takes a breath, halting, and grinds his teeth at the way it breaks. “I’m not a symbol or a weapon. I have… all this room inside of me where all those things once fit and now that the space is mine to fill, I don’t know how.”

No one else has known weakness in him, not in all of these long years. Galo’s seen it, though. Lio knows this. Galo’s looked into him and found all the places that were only barely being held together by the Promare— and now the Promare’s gone, and all that’s left is the crumbling. 

Galo’s moved to meet him, to stand beside him, and it’s with a start Lio realizes that’s where he now knows him best: next to him. “It’s probably gonna take time,” Galo says, arms lowering to his sides, hands disappearing into his pockets, “but you’ll be able to find all the stuff you missed before, the kind of stuff that would’ve filled you up if things had been different. You just gotta look for it and let it in when you find it.” A sigh escapes him. “That’s a lot for one person to worry about. I don’t know how you do it.”

A smile pulls cautiously at Lio’s lips. “I wonder what sort of things you worry about.” He knows that Galo’s head isn’t quite so empty as some might guess.

“Hmm,” Galo says, thoughtful. “Not a whole lot. I just worry about whether or not the people important to me are happy.”

Their gazes meet and the question is there in Galo’s blue eyes, so filled to brimming with hope: is Lio happy? In this moment he understands, truly understands, what it is that fills Galo up: this caring for others, this hope for happiness, this earnest desire to give to the ones he loves everything he can. He makes Lio want to be giving, in a way that’s new. It’s not a thing of necessity, like in all the rest of Lio’s life, nothing that Galo is desperate and begging for, helpless to find on his own; it’s a gift that Lio can choose to give without the weight of so many people's fates on his shoulders.

And so he does, the best he can. “I want to be happy,” Lio answers quietly, “with you.”

For once, Galo seems breathless, caught off-guard, and Lio likes that. “See?” he says, and there’s a fondness in his voice that before might have terrified Lio— though now, it wraps around him like the scarf he’d been given. “That’s exactly the kind of stuff you gotta let in.” How bright his smile; the darkness around them is banished by it, blazing like the sun. “And—” 

The thought is forgotten, the rest of the words halted where they wait, and Galo’s gaze is drawn away and up to the sky. Lio’s brow furrows and he asks, “What is it?” before following to where those eyes have gone. The answer to the question is in his ear but he doesn’t need it because he sees just what it is. 

“It’s snowing,” Galo says gently. As it falls, it looks like stars coming to the earth, right to where they stand, the universe sinking to meet them. 

Lio is quietly fascinated. Before, the snow never touched him; the heat of his always banished it before it could land— but now he feels it soft against his skin, the tiniest shock of cold that gives way quickly to his new, gentler warmth. Now, snowflakes make a home on his eyelashes and he can see the myriad of colors contained within them if he looks closely in the moonlight. Despite the cold, Lio shakes his hand free of its glove and holds it out, palm up, flinching less and less as snowflakes gather in the cup of his hand only briefly before melting away. 

“The first snow,” Galo says, his eyes closed and his face turned to the sky, “in the brand new world. It feels like it makes everything clean, doesn’t it?”

Fingertips that have chilled in the open air begin to warm again when they meet Galo’s face; Lio knows just how the curve of that jaw fits in the palm of his hand and it slots exactly into place now, coaxing Galo’s eyes open again. They’re wide and blinking and surprised and they search Lio’s gaze, upturned to meet them, as if for an explanation. Lio has none to speak; he doesn’t know how to say that such open honesty in those features had drawn his touch in spite of himself. 

Lio turns fully toward him, raises himself onto his toes, and then, soft as a snowflake, presses a kiss to those waiting lips. How long and patiently they’ve waited, even if it’s only for this, so chaste and light a thing. When Lio speaks, the calmness of his voice belies nothing of all the rapidly moving parts in his chest now firing to life. “It feels like a beginning,” he says. 

It seems for a long moment that Galo’s been struck dumb; he’s frozen in place as if by the falling snow, mouth open, arms hanging uselessly at his sides. When he does come back to life, when Lio withdraws his hand and lowers himself from his tip-toes, Galo looks as though he wants to chase that touch, but holds back. He’s become practiced at that, Lio thinks. Holding back. So careful, so kind, so unlike the brash brute Lio had once thought him to be. 

They stare at one another until the snow begins falling too thickly for them to see the other’s face. Lio’s hand disappears back into his glove and he wraps his arms around himself, hunching underneath the snowflakes that don’t so much sweetly land as they do simply collide now that the weather’s turned. Galo’s found his voice wherever he’d lost it, says, “We should head inside before it gets worse.” Lio nods and follows behind Galo, back into the building and down the stairs and toward the elevator again, the both of them brushing off the snow piled on their shoulders. 

They’re silent on the elevator ride down and Lio, face warm and half-hidden in his scarf, can’t bring himself to look at Galo quite yet. His heart is still hammering in his chest as if it’s hanging a framed photo of that simple kiss there for Lio to study and pick apart and agonize over in the evening he’ll spend alone. Part of him is grateful, though; he doesn’t want to forget it so quickly. His heart is doing him a favor, in a way. 

Lio’s floor arrives first and the two of them step off the elevator and move down the hallway. The further they go, the closer they are to saying goodnight, so the walk is slow, almost funereal, and would be funny to Lio if he weren’t the one in mourning. There, at the door to his apartment, Lio stops and turns to look at Galo who can’t quite look back. “Well,” he says in a low voice, “thank you for.. what you showed me.” 

Galo moves a hand to the back of his own neck and rubs at it, shrugs his shoulders. “No need to thank me. It’s better to share it with someone than go by yourself, don’t you think?” The way Galo’s looking at Lio’s door— it’s as if the thing has done him great harm, and perhaps it will, when it closes behind Lio. “Guess it’s time to say goodnight. So… goodnight.” 

“Goodnight,” Lio says in return. His heart feels full of something that he can’t quite place; the pressure of it increases the further Galo disappears down the hallway, back toward the elevator that will take him down to his own apartment, on the other side of the world as far as Lio in this moment is concerned. His voice bursts from him before he can stop it, before he can perhaps refine the words he says. “Galo—” There are those blue eyes again to meet his. “You... “ Almost panicked, Lio holds out his hands still clad in gloves. “You always make sure I’m warm, don’t you?”

The answering smile warms him more than the mittens or scarf ever did. “Yeah. I’ve got fire to spare, y’know?” A fist hits against that broad chest, muffled by Galo’s own glove. “It’s always inside of me, my burning soul!” 

At this moment, Lio doesn’t have it in him to scoff. His nerves are in the shaking of his voice when he calls out, quieter than he’d intended, “Well, why don’t you come keep me warm, then?”

A pause. A long pause in which Lio feels as though he’s about to fall to pieces. “What?” Galo squeaks out, a little unsure.

“Come keep me warm, then!” The words, suddenly loud and challenging, trail behind Lio as he runs into his apartment, the door still wide open behind him. He throws off his gloves, hides his face against his hands and he’s surprised they don’t go up in flames with how hot his skin is, a blush blazing across his cheeks. Behind him, the sound of fast-approaching footsteps that come to an abrupt stop, the creaking of hinges as Galo cautiously pushes the door far enough open to step inside, and the latch as it finds purchase and closes the two inside together. 

Lio takes a deep breath and straightens, willing away the redness in his face as he uncoils the scarf from around his neck, tossing it to the side to join his gloves. With all the levelness he can manage, he turns around to face Galo, hands going to the buttons of his jacket. “Aren’t you going to stay?” he asks, nodding toward Galo’s own winter coat still tightly bundled against the cold. Rapid nodding is his answer and then Galo’s shedding his outerwear in record time, none of which ends up in a neat pile but rather in every corner of the room, somehow, but Lio isn’t surprised.

He doesn’t have time to be surprised— Galo closes the distance between them in two long strides, places his heavy hands on Lio’s shoulders, helps him slip the jacket from them and throws that, too, in some unknown direction. Lio couldn’t possibly tell; he’s staring too intently at the chest that’s at eye-level, afraid of what will happen if he looks up to meet the gaze he can feel on him. 

There’s Galo’s touch to chase away the fear as it always does so easily, even if Galo himself is the inspiration for that fear; the drag of his fingertips against the sides of Lio’s neck eases his head back and his eyes are half-lidded when finally they’re captured by Galo’s, intense as they are, sharp as they are. He’ll never get used to how they look through him, how they strip him of everything and lay him bare to Galo. Lio’s lips part for a shaking breath. 

Quietly, Galo asks, “Do you need time?”

_’Give me time,’_ he’d begged before. 

“No,” he whispers now. 

The first touch of Galo’s lips is just like the one Lio had imagined when he lay in pieces, so hesitant and gentle— but the desperation beneath is of a different kind. No one’s life hangs in the balance this time, but _something_ is there on a tightrope between them, or else waiting to jump from a precipice and into what’s unknown. Their breaths crash into each other, both sighing at the contact, and when Galo speaks, Lio feels the words against his mouth, tastes them more than he hears them: “Please,” are the words, soft and pleading. “Can I—” 

This kiss is not so chaste as the last; Lio crushes his parted lips to Galo’s, reaches with fingers frantic to find purchase on Galo’s shirt, fists closing around it. There, where their mouths meet, is a blaze brighter than any Lio’s ever seen, even brighter than the flames that had cleansed the earth in its entirety. He’s left gasping in the wake of it and it spreads over all of him and over Galo, too, whose hands are alight, fingertips burning a path into Lio’s hair, his palm cradling the back of his head so he can bear down onto the kiss. 

It’s only now that he has this Lio realizes he’d been starved of it. Not once had he allowed himself this vulnerability; not once had he offered himself up to another person and not once had he taken what another offered him. Lio’s hands flatten against Galo’s chest and drag up, up; he encircles Galo’s neck with his arms and lifts himself, wrapping his legs around Galo’s waist so that they’re on the same level, eye-to-eye. There’s a short sound against his lips and Galo’s misplaced grip finds a home again on the thick of Lio’s thighs, holding him in place, and he pulls back to meet Lio’s eyes, dazed as they are.

“Why did you stop?” Lio asks, breathless. 

Galo’s gaze shifts over his face, down to the lips that are still parted and waiting. “I wanted to look at you.”

Lio leans forward, presses their foreheads together. “You’ve seen me before.”

“Not like this.”

The short laugh that escapes Lio surprises even him. “No one’s seen me like this.” That look in Galo’s eye, the one that’s an urgent hunger, is one he’s never seen before, either. It makes him shiver, calls him forward again, inspires him to find Galo’s bottom lip with his teeth and graze against it. “Kiss me again.”

How diligently Galo answers the call, surging into another kiss, turning their two bodies and stepping forward until Lio’s back hits the wall. That leaves Galo’s hands free to wander and they do, to soft places, to places he can sink his fingertips into yielding flesh, hands full. The bite of Lio’s nails answers, leaving a trail over Galo’s shoulders and back and disappearing into the blue shock of his hair. How ugly the evidence of so sweet a thing will be when finally the two separate from each other at long last. But not yet. Not yet. 

First, the touch of an adventurous tongue and Galo’s groaning reply. All the breath that Lio contains escapes him at the sound, one he’d never heard before and one that’s his entirely. He tries to coax it from Galo again but instead he gets that same intimate touch back, a taste of something that makes Lio wonder what Galo would look like with his head thrown back and his eyes tightly shut. That, for now, is a leap too far, but there is something else he wants before he’s done tonight. 

Into the kiss, he says, “Take me to bed.” The grip Galo has on him goes suddenly slack and Lio has to hold on to keep his feet off the floor— but then Galo’s arms return as the shock fades. Can he taste the smirk pulling at Lio’s lips? “I wonder what you’re thinking? I want…” His mouth drags over Galo’s jaw, stops at his ear so he can whisper the rest of the words. “...to fall asleep with you. Can I?”

There’s a dull _thump_ when Galo’s forehead hits the wall behind Lio’s back but he nods all the same, then pulls back and gives Lio a surveying look. “Do I get to keep kissing you until then?” 

Lio tilts his head to the side as if considering his answer; he lifts a hand, presses the pad of his thumb against Galo’s kiss-bruised bottom lip, brushes over it. “Yes,” he whispers, following the touch of his fingertip with his mouth. He can feel the grin that stretches beneath his lips and Galo tightens his arms around Lio, carrying him through the apartment and over the threshold of his bedroom. 

There, in that safe and warm embrace, Lio realizes that Galo’d been wrong: if things had been different, this never would have been his, and somehow that, more than anything else, brings him comfort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> on a scale from 1-10 how down would y'all be for this getting nsfw in ch 5 
> 
> i'm @paybackisawitch on twit if u wanna hang!!!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What’s the use of all those muscles if you can’t even take a shoe off me?” Lio asks, head tilted and brows raised. The look he’s given in return is scornful but instead of shaming him brings a grin slowly to the corners of his mouth and then, following that, a bubbling laugh bright from his chest. It goes like that for a minute, with Lio laughing and Galo pulling until finally, mercifully, the shoe slips off his foot so abruptly that Galo stumbles back a few paces. “Just untie the other one, I’m begging you,” Lio gasps, trying to recover from his laughter. 
> 
> Galo, muttering to himself, does exactly that, and the second shoe comes off much more easily. Next, the socks are tugged off one by one and then Galo lingers, wraps his fingers around the delicate bones of Lio’s ankles and lets his hands slide up just enough to demand Lio’s attention. He’s given it, lavender eyes curious and the ghost of a smile still haunting mirthful lips. Galo says, all smirks and teasing, “Do you want me to take off the rest?”
> 
> Lio, with none of the teasing, says, “Yes.”

The long workday is done and even longer is the trip back home, Lio’s mind blank and muscles aching. He’s no stranger to hard work but he is a stranger to his body, still, and the way it behaves without the Promare fueling it. Constant burning and regenerating, those are the gifts he’d been given, but now he is a weaker man without them. Exhaustion settles in heavy like a weight and he’d never slept so soundly in the world before— or perhaps it’s that in this new one he has a bed to fall into, or even that Galo offers him a warm embrace to chase away his restlessness and ease him into sweetest dreams. Lio anticipates that bed and those arms and sweet dreams as he drags himself toward his apartment, Galo at his back.

Long gone are the days when Galo would stand in the elevator, hand holding the door open as he forlornly watched Lio walk down the corridor and out of reach, waiting for the invitation to follow; now he’s only a step behind Lio, arms around his waist and chin propped on the top of his head and body taking the scant weight of him, because to walk all the way to his apartment by his own strength would be too much for Lio. This has become their everyday and there’s a comfort in the routine and certainly a novelty in it for Lio, whose life before was always on the edge of chaos. 

The apartment doesn’t look like _his_ anymore; it looks like _theirs_, though they’ve never spoken the idea aloud, though Galo still has his own place a floor above, abandoned near-nightly since the first time they’d fallen asleep next to each other. All around him now are the unmistakable signs of Galo, and Lio finds himself fond of it, never despairing the mess but instead being grateful for it because now, after all this time, the place looks lived-in, like it belongs to someone who too belongs _here_. It looks like a home.

Lio disentangles from Galo, who stops at the door to shrug off his jacket, and deems doing the same more effort than he’s willing to expend. Instead he makes his shuffling way into the bedroom and falls heavily into the bed, sighing in relief at the softness of the comforter underneath him and groping blindly for one of the pillows, his eyes already closed. Galo follows his own laugh into the room and calls out, “Shouldn’t you at least take your shoes off before you get into bed?” His shoes must have been left in the entryway because his footsteps are quiet when he walks to the edge of the mattress to sit. 

“If you’re so concerned, why don’t you do it for me,” is Lio’s reply. It lacks a certain venom when it’s muttered into a pillowcase.

He should have expected no less from Galo, who stands and promptly rolls Lio onto his back and grabs the heel of one of his shoes. He tugs once, gently, perhaps to give Lio a warning— and then again, harder, but the shoe won’t budge. Lio blinks himself to alertness, props himself up on his elbows, stares at Galo as he makes a face and pulls at the shoe again.

“What’s the use of all those muscles if you can’t even take a shoe off me?” Lio asks, head tilted and brows raised. The look he’s given in return is scornful but instead of shaming him brings a grin slowly to the corners of his mouth and then, following that, a bubbling laugh bright from his chest. It goes like that for a minute, with Lio laughing and Galo pulling until finally, mercifully, the shoe slips off his foot so abruptly that Galo stumbles back a few paces. “Just untie the other one, I’m begging you,” Lio gasps, trying to recover from his laughter. 

Galo, muttering to himself, does exactly that, and the second shoe comes off much more easily. Next, the socks are tugged off one by one and then Galo lingers, wraps his fingers around the delicate bones of Lio’s ankles and lets his hands slide up just enough to demand Lio’s attention. He’s given it, lavender eyes curious and the ghost of a smile still haunting mirthful lips. Galo says, all smirks and teasing, “Do you want me to take off the rest?”

Lio, with none of the teasing, says, “Yes.”

He surprises even himself with the answer, so candid and quick from his tongue. Intimacy has been a slow thing, the both of them content in that, happy to discover what’s between them moment by moment, inch by inch, with no risk of pushing too far. So this, so suddenly, is a departure from what they’re used to— but Lio finds there’s no dishonesty in it. It’s with newfound wakefulness that he studies Galo’s face, looking for any sign that he’s crossed a line. 

He discovers no anger there, no disappointment, no discomfort— only a blush and wide eyes and from that mouth open in shock come sputtering words. “Wait— Are you— serious? You’re serious?” It’s sweet, the way he stammers. For all the stumbling he’s doing over the question, though, his hands are still steady there at Lio’s ankles, warm and pressing and something Lio would welcome on any part of him to which those fingertips would see fit to wander. 

Lio isn’t a fool; he’s guessed that, as always, Galo has been holding back for his benefit. “Don’t you want to?” he asks, already knowing the answer— so Galo doesn’t put voice to it and instead _acts_, climbing onto the bed and meeting Lio where he sits up. Slowly, the buttons on Lio’s jacket are slipped and it opens up to reveal a chest rising and falling with breaths coming suddenly faster than before. How quickly the atmosphere has become charged. All it took was one word of consent. 

The jacket is gone and next is his shirt, raised slowly to reveal the pale stomach beneath it. Every brush of Galo’s fingertips against his newly bared skin sets Lio alight, each contact like the strike of a match, like a flame to a fuse. Lio lifts his arms and lets Galo pull the shirt away from his body; it’s thrown aside, forgotten immediately, because Lio can look nowhere but at Galo’s face and Galo can look nowhere but at the body being revealed to him. 

How almost reverent the expression on Galo’s face. Lio lowers himself back down to the bed, lays back among the pillows, puts himself on display for that adoring gaze and those worshipful hands. He’d imagined this before, Galo kneeling between his legs and dragging his palms down his sides, but a daydream doesn’t compare to this. Galo and his touch are beyond imagination— and he isn’t done.

Lio makes sure he knows he isn’t done.

His own fingers go to the top button of his pants, pulling it open, the movement drawing Galo’s gaze. Next comes the zipper, when he’s sure Galo’s looking— and surely he must be, because the slow crawl of that zipper going down pulls a shaking sigh from him. Lio goes for his waistband next— but suddenly Galo’s hands are there and he finds his voice enough to say, “Let me.” So Lio does, lifting his hips to make it easier for Galo to peel the pants from him, laying him almost bare except for the underwear that leave so very little to the imagination. 

Lio’s never known Galo to be this struck dumb and it makes him bite his bottom lip against a smile. It would be enough, he thinks, to simply lay here beneath that gaze, heavy as a hand sliding over his body. Already he stirs underneath it— but he wants more, and he’ll lead Galo to it if he needs to. Lio sits up again, reaches out and crooks his finger underneath Galo’s chin, pulling him forward with only that one, light touch, until their mouths are near enough to share breaths. One kiss, sweet as sugar, and then Lio says, “Kiss me.”

As if given life with those two words, Galo obeys, and there’s no meandering path to teeth and tongues and kisses that bruise this time; desperation pushes their two bodies together and there’s nowhere their hands don’t wander now where before there were boundaries, lines that weren’t crossed. Lio, mouth open against Galo’s, groans when finally his palms slide down over the beautiful curve of Galo’s back and take handfuls of their prize, though through the barrier of cloth. The touch pushes Galo’s hips forward and into Lio’s and they both gasp, finally coming apart and struggling for breath. 

The way Galo looks at him so hungrily makes him shiver and he suddenly wants to know just how hungry that gaze can get. 

With gentle hands, Lio eases Galo apart from him, pushes him back to kneeling before himself falling onto the pillows again. Galo looks as though he wants to follow— but Lio lifts his leg, points his foot and presses the ball of it to Galo’s chest, halting him. “Stay,” he says, and despite the way his body shakes with what’s barely contained, his voice is firm. “Look at me,” is his next command, and their gazes lock immediately. And then Lio drags his fingertips down over his own stomach, lower, underneath the elastic waistband of his underwear, and takes himself in hand.

“Fuck,” Galo breathes. Never has he been a man of so few words.

“Watch,” Lio whispers, and then takes a shaking breath at the first stroke of his own hand. 

It’s not the first time he’s touched himself with Galo in mind, but never has he been so surrounded by him: the heat of him, the sound of him, the taste of him still on his tongue. And those blue eyes, the way they stare, the desire in them— Lio’s the first to look away, his head tilting back and his breath coming faster and he thinks, a little desperately, that he could come apart with no more than a look from Galo, if he let himself. But not yet. Not in the middle of his show.

His free hand moves to join his other and he pushes at the scant clothing still left on his body, getting it out of the way. Both hands, now, wrapped around the length of him, his hips moving so he can push through their grip. A sound escapes him, small and breathless, and he hears another in reply, from Galo, whose eyes are still intent on Lio’s face, he soon finds out when he meets them again. 

Such restraint. Galo’s palms are on his thighs, fingertips pressing against the fabric of his pants and the flesh underneath, but Lio thinks they can be put to better use. He lifts himself up onto his own knees to face Galo and now, for the first time, they aren’t touching, though the tension between them might as well be the weight of a hand for how heavy it is. Voice low, thick, Lio says, “Touch yourself,” and then lets his gaze drop between them where his own hand still works and where he can see Galo through the clothes he still wears, hard and ready.

Galo doesn’t bother undressing; he only pushes his pants down far enough to wrap his fingers around himself and match Lio stroke for stroke. At first, Lio can’t tear his gaze away from the sight of it, the way he moves— and to think that Lio, if he wanted it and if he asked for it, could see this same body stretched out underneath him or on top of him and moving just like that, right against him. Lio reaches out, grabs a handful of Galo’s shirt in his fist, rips it upwards to reveal more of that skin to his eyes that are just as hungry as he remembers Galo’s being. That touch, the grazing of his knuckles over the muscles moving at Galo’s middle, breaks whatever spell that had kept them apart for what felt like an eternity; they crash together again and Lio swallows Galo’s moan, starved for it, his lips raw.

Lio drags his hand up over Galo’s chest, around the back of his neck, slides his nails into the blue of his hair and holds on tight. He’s forgotten to kiss Galo and can only make short, breathless noises against his mouth, his muscles pulling tight, his hand in its rhythm picking up, faster, chasing what he knows— what they both know— is coming. Galo leans forward, presses his forehead to Lio’s, whispers, “I want to see you come for me,” and that’s all it takes. Lio’s head falls back, eyes closed, and Galo’s lips blaze a path hot with his breath over the expanse of Lio’s throat. He wonders if Galo can better taste the way he moans than hear it.

Galo isn’t far behind and Lio’s never seen anything so beautiful as the way his spine bows, has never heard a song so perfect as his own name falling wrecked and broken from those lips. Galo leans forward and Lio follows as if in a dance, falling back, letting Galo’s release join his own in a stain on his stomach, and suddenly they’re face-to-face, Galo holding himself up over Lio, the both of them spent and breathing hard. 

Galo looks ready to collapse on top of him but Lio stops him with gentle hands pressed against his chest, guiding him beside him instead. “Let me clean up first,” he says quietly, and then begins to drag his heavy limbs across the bed— 

But a pair of hands stop him, grab him by the waist and hold him down against the mattress, and it isn’t until Lio sees that blue head lowering down toward his middle that he realizes what Galo’s doing. A strangled gasp of his name is all Lio manages before he feels the touch of a tongue on his skin. His back arches and despite the exhaustion in his body, despite the release he hasn’t even recovered from, a shiver crawls its way down his spine and his hands flex where they’ve disappeared into Galo’s hair. 

“There,” Galo says when his task is done, and now they can press close, nothing between them but the rumpled clothes barely hanging onto Galo’s body. They lay their heads on a pillow and face one another, limbs tangling, hands wandering over skin still covered in goosebumps and a sheen of sweat. 

This, here, is a contentedness Lio has never once known. He doesn’t realize he’s smiling until Galo’s fingertips slides over the line of his jaw, his thumb pressing gently against the corner of his upturned lips. “You look happy,” he says, his voice slow. 

“I am happy,” Lio whispers back. And then, because even now he can’t miss an opportunity to tease, he adds: “You’re much more obedient than I would have guessed. I thought you had a problem with authority.” 

Suddenly, a loss of warmth as Galo rolls over, turning away from Lio. He scrambles to close the distance between them again, pressing himself up against Galo’s back, clinging. “Don’t leave me here cold,” he begs, pressing a kiss to the back of Galo’s neck. “Please.” It seems that’s apology enough, or perhaps Galo’s just soft, because he turns around and wraps his arms tightly around Lio again and chases away the winter that’s lurking just beyond the bed they share. 

“Try telling me to do something I don’t wanna next time,” Galo grumbles, but with little real complaint, “and we’ll see what happens.” He tries valiantly for a frown but when he glances at Lio’s face and sees a grin still there, he can’t help but mirror it, lazy though it is. It’s another little victory Lio revels in— and no harm done, because they’re each as content as the other.

Galo shifts, settles further into the bed, lets his head drop onto Lio’s shoulder, face hiding against his neck. Lio’s hands lift automatically and he pushes his fingers through Galo’s hair again, this time gently, slowly, over and over. “Are you going to sleep?” Lio whispers, tilting his head down so that when he speaks, his lips brush softly against Galo’s forehead. 

A low, “Mmm,” is the answer he gets. And then, so quiet and slurred with sleep come two more words barely spoken against his neck: “Love you.” Galo’s breaths after that are deep and slow.

Lio goes still in the arms wrapped around his middle and his hands stop in their motion and he has to consider, suddenly, what those words mean to him— and also try to guess what they might mean to Galo. _Love_. It holds such importance to some and here, between them, he thinks that it _should_ be important— but he also knows Galo’s heart, the vast size of it, the staggering capacity he has to love. Then should he feel comforted by this, that perhaps to be loved by Galo isn’t something uniquely his own?

His hands start again in their gentle caress and he closes his eyes. The exhaustion from before, held at bay by the fire Galo awoke within him, creeps back in on the heels of his release— and he leaves the wondering and the questions and the full feeling inside of his chest for the morning when he’ll wake warm and rested and holding Galo close.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lio is breathless again but it’s for a different reason now— and when he inhales, a _warmth_ sweeps over him, like nothing he’s ever felt. It’s like when he’d been burned, except there’s no pain, only _novelty_, only something new. He knows what it is; not too long ago, Galo had murmured the words to him right before dreams had taken him, though he doesn’t remember saying it. _Love you_, he’d said, and Lio thinks he agrees.

Fires are far and few between with the absence of the Burnish and their curse. These days, more time is spent maintaining Burning Rescue’s vehicles than actually using them and while most consider it a blessing, there are some among this elite force that miss the excitement of a good fire rescue— Galo, of course, being one of the more vocal about it. “It’s been days since we got a call,” he complains loudly at Lio’s back. “Not even a single cat stuck in a tree, can you believe it?”

“Poor thing... If not while there’s a building burning to the ground,” Lio says, glancing over his shoulder at Galo, who is sprawled across one of the couches in the common room of the firehouse, “then _when_ will you find the time to pose and announce your firefighter’s soul?” His voice drips with sarcasm; it’ll be bitter seasoning for the food he’s cooking on the stovetop, but Galo must have developed a taste for it by now.

Galo throws his arm over his face and it draws Lio’s gaze, that flash of skin. It’s been some time since he was burned, so oftentimes he does without his protective sleeve; his arm is healed now, shiny and pink with scars, and Lio always finds himself distracted by it. Every day, he sees this reminder that the Promare was once within him, though it wasn’t his own fire that had burned Galo. Still, he holds onto the reminder more desperately than perhaps he should. The rest of the world, it seems, wants to forget all about the Promare and about the Burnish, but Lio can’t forget. The disappearance of the Promare doesn’t erase the decades of suffering he and people like him had to endure. It follows him into the new world, no matter how peaceful it is. He will keep these memories for as long as he lives.

So infatuated with those scars is Lio that he forgets what’s right in front of him; one of his hands touches the burner on the stove and he lets out a short sound of pain. He recoils but not quickly enough— already his skin has reddened and he can see the beginnings of a blister where the contact was made. The pain of it is entirely new to him, a sensation he’s never before felt, and it fills him suddenly with fascination. Then _this_ is the consequence of heat and flame. Of all the curses the Promare had given him, invulnerability to fire within him and without was the one blessing— but it isn’t his anymore.

Without thinking, he reaches out for the burner again.

Lio only feels the beginning of nearby warmth before another hand wraps around his wrist and stops his movement. “What are you _doing_?” Galo looms over him, brows drawn together in some mixture of anger and concern. “Are you crazy? You burned yourself and you’re going back for more?” The grip on his wrist turns gentle and Galo gingerly tilts Lio’s hand to look more closely at his injury. “It’s not so bad— I can treat it here.” When their gazes meet, Galo’s anger loses its edge, softens into understanding, as so often it does when it comes to Lio. “Come on.”

Galo turns off the stove before leading Lio away from it and to the nearby sink. Cool water floods from the faucet and Galo pulls the burned hand underneath the stream. “Hold it there, okay? It needs to stay under the water for a few minutes. I gotta go get some supplies.” He turns to go— but before he takes his first step away, he faces Lio again, bends to press a quick kiss to his temple. It’s with that he disappears through the door, leaving Lio alone with the sound of rushing water and his own thoughts.

Stupid of him. Stupid of him to allow it to happen in the first place and stupid of him to go back a second time. He should well understand just how powerless he is now without the Promare. It’s been _months_; why hasn’t he better adjusted by now? Lio presses his lips together and grimaces, half in pain and half in disappointment. Galo had looked so afraid.

The fear is gone and replaced with determination when he comes back into the room, a first aid kit hanging over his shoulder. Galo grabs a clean towel from the drawer on his way to the sink, turns off the water and gently dries Lio’s skin. “Okay,” he murmurs. “That looks just shy of a second-degree burn to me. It’ll be better in no time.” Is he reassuring himself or Lio? He seems to be the one most concerned, so perhaps it’s for his own sake; Lio doesn’t begrudge him that and stays silent, allowing himself to be led to the table and eased into one of the chairs. Galo takes the opposite one and puts the first aid kit on the table in front of them, using one hand to unzip and throw it open, the other still holding so very gently onto Lio.

Always so gentle. Lio lifts his gaze to Galo’s face and watches him as he works, his fingers skillfully cleaning the wound, applying an ointment, wrapping the hand loosely in a bandage. Quietly, Lio says, “You always have to take care of me.” Galo doesn’t miss a beat in his task but there is the slightest twitch of a frown at the corner of his mouth. “If it isn’t this, it’s getting me an apartment or helping keep me warm in the winter. It’s training me, giving me a place to work, even being with—” Suddenly, a heated look in the eyes that meet his, and Lio balks slightly in the wake of it, his voice faltering. “—being with me...”

“I’m not doing you a favor,” Galo says. It’s with his usual determination, yes, but the underlying gravity of his words is a rare thing. “Being with you— it’s not just a solution to some problem. I’m with you ‘cause I want to be.” He begins a careful examination of the injury’s dressing. “Anyway,” he mutters, “why shouldn’t I take care of someone important to me. Like it’s a bad thing… Doesn’t make any sense…” There are other words but they’re lost under his breath; Lio wants to hear them, almost leans forward to try, but stops himself. He figures if Galo wanted him to hear, he would have.

Lio lets out a little sigh. “I just mean…” His hand, freshly bandaged, is placed softly onto the table. “...shouldn’t I take care of you, too? Isn’t there anything you need from me?” How could there not be? Lio is used to giving himself to other people— taking on leadership of Mad Burnish, becoming a hero to his people, he’d taken care of everyone who needed him, but that was when he had power. Now he has none and now he’s relying on another person and he doesn’t know _how_.

Infuriatingly, Galo’s answer is quick and short. “Hmm… I can’t think of anything.”

A brief second of irritation in the clenching of Lio’s jaw. “You barely even thought about it. There has to be something I can offer, even if it’s small, like… like talking about something that’s bothering you. I can’t be the only one who lost something when the world was cleansed.” He isn’t sure of his own goal here. Does he want to find something within Galo that’s bruised or broken just to feel better about himself? No— he knows his own intentions are kinder than that. He only wants to take care of Galo as Galo has taken care of him, to repay him, to show him the same sweetness.

Galo puts his elbow on the table and his chin in his hand and looks unseeing into the distance as he racks his brain. Lio stares expectantly, peering closely enough that he can imagine seeing the gears turning inside Galo’s big, beautiful head. It takes a minute, but the answer comes to him, and he says, “I don’t think about what I lost much. I gained a lot more, anyway, so why should I let it bother me?”

For a moment, Lio can only sit still and continue to stare, as if waiting for the quiet to be filled with something else, with _more_, but Galo’s said all he needs to. All the air in his lungs leaves Lio in a sigh and he slumps back against his chair— and even though he’s a little disappointed, a smile still tugs at his lips. “Unbelievable,” he says, exasperated. “Your light doesn’t so much as flicker. Even through everything— Kray Foresight’s betrayal of you and the end of the world— you’re bright as ever.”

“What Gov—” Galo stops himself at the nickname, frowns and then corrects himself. “What _he_ did to me is nothing compared to what he did to you and all the Burnish. There’s a lot that he shouldn’t be forgiven for— and even if he ever were to be forgiven, it wouldn’t be for me to do. That’s up to you guys. Anyway…” Galo grins suddenly, holds up his hand and then curls it into a fist. “Whatever problem I had with that guy I worked out when I punched him right in his face.”

Lio is breathless again but it’s for a different reason now— and when he inhales, a _warmth_ sweeps over him, like nothing he’s ever felt. It’s like when he’d been burned, except there’s no pain, only _novelty_, only something new. He knows what it is; not too long ago, Galo had murmured the words to him right before dreams had taken him, though he doesn’t remember saying it. _Love you,_ he’d said, and Lio thinks he agrees.

“Hey… why are you smiling like that?”

Galo’s steady gaze is on him and Lio blinks as he meets it. “Smiling like what?”

“I’m not sure,” Galo says, the words drawn with suspicion. “Like you know something I don’t.”

“I know lots of things you don’t.”

A scoff. “Real nice… after I said all those cute things…”

Lio smiles again, less secret this time, brighter. “Can I kiss you?”

He likes the way a blush rises on Galo’s cheeks. There’s nothing better than getting a rise out of someone who insists all the time on being so sure of himself. “Huh? Right now?”

The chair scrapes across the floor as Lio stands from it, looking down at Galo with some heat. He nods, steps forward close enough that Galo has to spread his legs to allow him space. “Right here and now. Can I?” A nod is given to him in return so he reaches out, takes Galo’s face in his hands— careful of his bandaged one but not so hurt that he can’t do this— and presses a kiss to Galo’s lips. He doesn’t pull away to speak— can’t bring himself to part from Galo— but his words do crash against Galo’s mouth. “Don’t let it go to your head,” he says quietly, “but I think you’re incredible.”

He can feel the smile creep onto Galo’s face. “You wanna tell me that again?”

Lio does him one better and kisses him once more, leaning enough into it this time that Galo has to lift his hands and wrap them around Lio’s waist and hold him there. As it always happens in the midst of a kiss, the world around Lio seems to give way to a space that is only theirs, that is only them and every place their two bodies touch— their lips, the hands at his waist, the knees that knock against his own, the hair underneath his fingertips as he drags them to the back of Galo’s head. It’s so very easy to get carried away, and who could blame him when Galo makes such a sweet noise against his mouth at the first touch of a tongue?

He drops his hands to where Galo’s rest, grabs them and moves them down to find purchase somewhere lower— but the movement makes him bump his injured hand and a gasp escapes him, making him pull back from the kiss. Galo’s brow collapses in concern and he opens his mouth to speak—

—but doesn’t have a chance before the door to the room swings open and the rest of Burning Rescue file through, chattering among themselves. The two freeze, Lio standing there between Galo’s legs and Galo’s hands directly on Lio’s ass, and it’s like that they remain until the others take notice of their compromising position. There are a few, brief seconds of absolute stillness during which Lio only has the mental capacity to hope they’ll all just turn around and go back the way they came— but, of course, nothing of the sort happens.

Scandalized, Remi says, “This is where we _eat_.”

The words break whatever spell had been cast over Lio and Galo and they scramble apart, Lio throwing himself gracefully into his chair and crossing his legs as if nothing had happened, and Galo nearly falling out of his own chair and only managing to catch himself by grabbing onto the table and sending the first aid kit crashing to the floor. Everyone is still staring at them except for Lucia who, apparently unbothered by the implications, goes to the stove and starts picking at the food Lio had cooked.

Varys, meanwhile, is staring between the two of them. “Are you two… _together?_”

Seeming more amused than disgusted, Aina says, “You didn’t know? They were so bad at hiding it, too.”

“There’s no policy against it,” Ignis says through clenched teeth and over Remi’s sputtering in the background, “but you could at least save it for when you _aren’t_ on the clock.” He lets out a short sigh. “Consider this your first warning. I want you two on cleaning duty for the rest of your shift, got it?”

Lio, who has been occupying himself with looking at the nails on his uninjured hand, glances up from them as if only just noticing everyone is there. Galo, at the same time, interjects with: “But, sir, Lio burned his hand. He shouldn’t do much with it for the next couple days.”

If it means getting out of scrubbing the toilets— Lio lifts his hand and shows off the bandage Galo had so carefully put on him. “Fine,” Ignis says, and it sounds as though he’s approaching the end of his patience. “Then the rookie can supervise you, Galo. Now _move_.”

They don’t have to be told twice; the two practically leap from their chairs and Lio leads the way out of the room and into the main hall, Galo at his heels. There’s a lightness in him after being found out, as though some secret burden has been lifted from him, so perhaps he floats through the door rather than walks. It closes behind Galo all the same, leaves the two of them alone once again, and Lio can’t help the soft laugh that tumbles from him.

Galo, too, is grinning from ear-to-ear. They’re like two children who just got away with something. “Guess that went better than it could have, huh?”

Lio tilts his head and lifts a brow. “It went rather well. Ignis _did_ say I get to order you around.”

There’s a challenge in Galo’s voice. “Only if you make it worth my while.”

The mischievous smirk that plays at the corners of Lio’s mouth suits him. “I think you’ve earned that.”

The door to the common room opens again and through it fly a mop and a bucket half-filled with sudsy water, which immediately slops over the sides and onto the floor. Remi’s face, red as a beetroot, appears in the doorway for only a moment. _”Stop talking and get on with it,”_ he says in a tumble of words, and then slams the door shut again.

The laughter the two dissolve into echoes throughout the firehouse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> someone: when will you stop just upping the number of chapters every time you post something new  
me: never 
> 
> @paybackisawitch on twit!


End file.
